


born of ixion and nephele

by knowyourwayinthedark



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blowjobs, Centaurs, Interspecies, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Probably post-Seine but how would one pull a centaur from a river?, Tree Sex, Xeno, we just don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowyourwayinthedark/pseuds/knowyourwayinthedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A nice fall day, an apple tree, horse cock. No one dies. Centaurvert/human Jean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	born of ixion and nephele

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StormX](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormX/gifts).



> Centaurs actually make absolutely zero sense and I open the floor to any fic that can properly fit a centaur into the story of Les Miserables and if you put in digressions and also a way that centaurs even deal with stairs I will love you for eternity
> 
> bless all the miseres who had to witness my devolution into a mess of "but centaurs don't work and horse dicks are so fucking nasty you can't put a mouth on there no why am I writing xeno someone shoot me" I feel much better now but holy god

“Valjean,” Javert calls, scowling, “get down from there at once.”

He cannot quite hide the genuine worry in his voice – and his equine body makes no attempt at it; his tail flicks anxiously, and without meaning too, his front hoof paws at the ground, the iron shoe thudding dully on the grass and rain-dampened earth.

Perhaps the thump of his hoof, more than the sound of his voice, is what makes Valjean finally peer down through the branches; Valjean’s smile is reassuring, but his position less so, for he is far too high off the ground for Javert’s liking. “Half a moment, Javert, I see one that I like.”

“You are too old to be swinging about trees like a monkey,” Javert snaps, nervousness clipping his words. The leaves obscure his vision, he cannot quite see Valjean’s position – he paces around the trunk, trying to keep the other man in sight. “What if you were to fall?”

Valjean says something, but he cannot hear it, and he can only see part of Valjean’s trousers, and a small patch of his autumn coat, before he climbs a little higher on a branch and the green leaves hide him entirely – “Valjean!” he says again, alarmed, as an entire branch rocks suddenly, sending a few curled leaves fluttering down.

Then Valjean is discernible once more, lowering himself cautiously through the branches, placing his feet with care, and his coat is swinging with its pockets heavy and lumpy with apples.

Javert lets out a breath of relief, but Valjean does not immediately drop to the ground, only settles in the fork of two gnarled branches – at least he is within Javert’s sight – and roots through his pockets, then tosses down an apple. Javert catches it automatically. Though the day is growing brisk and chilly, the apple is sun-warmed in his hand, a bright and vivid red, with a few splotches of yellow-green still near the stem; he squints at it for a moment, then glares up at Valjean. “Thank you,” he says reluctantly. “I suppose I should not have said I was hungry. It seems you are even more of a reckless fool when someone near you is in need of feeding.”

It is an idiot word, a careless slip, and Javert bites his tongue when the pause goes on for a fraction of a second too long – but Valjean only laughs, a little too lightly, and says, “Then eat, Javert, or my work will have gone to waste,” and, relieved, Javert jams the apple in his fool mouth. It is barely ripened, and the flesh is so crisp it almost cracks under his teeth, and its sweetness is shot through with tartness; some of the juice spills from the corner of his mouth, and he wipes at it, grimacing at the way the autumn breeze cools the sticky dampness on his face.

Valjean is watching, eyes warm as he crunches into an apple of his own, leg slung over the branch as though he is a much younger man. It is a peculiarly louche, suggestive pose, and the entire scene is beginning to have the flavor of one of the less respectable sorts of paintings. Valjean swings his foot a little, and the suggestion becomes ever more apparent as the motion makes his trousers tighten at the fork; Javert’s eyes flick to where he can just see the barest line of Valjean’s cock, hinted at by the stretch and fold of fabric. It is not hard, but his mouth goes dry, and his hooves shift uncomfortably. Valjean, for his part, seems cheerfully unaware of the reaction his position is eliciting.

Javert finishes the apple with a last resolute crunch of his teeth, drops the core at the roots of the tree, and opens his mouth to speak, but Valjean cuts him off. “Would you like another?” he calls, his outstretched hand offering another plump and perfect fruit.

He does, but the growl of his belly is ranking somewhere lower among his desires at the moment. He approaches the tree. Valjean slides from his perch, moving down to a lower-hanging branch, and settles sidesaddle on it, knees parted and feet dangling, still holding out the apple.

Valjean is low enough in the tree now that, if Javert wanted, he could reach forward, grip him by the waist, and lift him to the ground. His hand, with the apple in it, is outstretched between his knees, just at the level of Javert’s face. When he moves closer still, Valjean looks a little puzzled, and moves the apple closer to Javert’s mouth as though he expects him to take it with his teeth like a beast –

Javert grasps Valjean’s wrist delicately, brings his knuckles to his lips, and kisses them, tasting the sweet and slightly sticky residue of the apple Valjean has already eaten. 

Valjean’s hand twitches a little. “Oh,” he says, as Javert’s tongue slides across his fingers.

Gently, Javert plucks the apple from Valjean’s hand and slips it into his pocket – now, with Valjean’s fingers unoccupied, he can draw each one into his mouth, shutting his eyes and running his tongue over the rough pads, teasing with each slow brush of his lips.

Valjean’s breath is ragged. Javert strokes his thumb over the sensitive skin of Valjean’s inner wrist, feeling the pulse jumping there, as he shifts his attentions to the palm of Valjean’s hand, kissing it once before bringing his tongue to lick in a long, insinuating swath from fingertip up to the heel of Valjean’s palm – “Javert!” Valjean gasps, and finally Javert permits himself to smirk against the rough skin, and opens his eyes, glancing up at Valjean’s face.

And what he sees is immensely satisfying. Valjean is flushed, mouth a little open, eyes glazed as he stares down at Javert, the hand he had placed beside him on the branch for balance now a white-knuckled fist – and right before Javert’s eyes, Valjean’s cock is pressing hard and swollen against his trousers, obscene and wonderful.

“Javert,” Valjean says again. His hand shifts against Javert’s mouth, curves so the palm is pressed to his cheek; it moves back, sliding over stubble and the line of his jaw, until his fingers are tracing Javert’s ear and neck and then sinking into his hair. Javert lifts his hands to Valjean’s thighs, leans forward a little, and nuzzles at his clothed prick; the hand presses slightly against his scalp. “God,” Valjean moans, as Javert mouths softly at the fabric, then reaches forward to undo Valjean’s trousers, “Christ, oh –”

Javert rests his hands on Valjean’s knees as he dips his head forward and takes Valjean’s cock in his mouth. Lips loose about the shaft, he bobs his head, keeping the touch of his tongue deliberately light; Valjean’s hand shivers on the back of Javert’s head, but there is no attempt to guide his movements, no effort to shove deeper into Javert’s mouth.

He continues to tease, licking in brief strokes up the underside of Valjean’s prick, brushing his lips against the swollen head, growing brasher and more frustrated as he goes – will Valjean never permit himself to be provoked, never pull on his hair, or force Javert’s head down on his cock, or even so much as ask for a firmer touch? The man seems content to tremble and moan, and finally, in desperation, Javert runs the tip of his tongue in a long, exaggeratedly slow line, from the base of Valjean’s prick to the head –

Valjean’s legs shudder violently under his hands, then the fingers buried in his hair grip tight and yank back. Javert stares up into Valjean’s face.

“Please, Javert,” Valjean says. His tongue runs over his lips; he swallows. Somehow he sounds polite, reasonable, even though he is breathless and red-faced; he is not begging, he is not desperate. Were it not so endearing, Javert would be irritated – but he has got what he wants, now, he has finally pushed Valjean past some breaking point.

So he jerks his head back, challengingly, against the grip Valjean has on it, hoping to spur him on further. “Make me,” he says, not bothering to soften his harsh grin – and the grin grows wider as Valjean groans, digs his fingers into Javert’s scalp, and shoves his face forward again.

He sucks in earnest this time. “You want this?” he hears Valjean pant. “For me to –” The hand on the back of his head presses, hard, and Javert gags a little as Valjean’s cock thrusts deeper, nearly to the hilt – Valjean eases off immediately, babbling an apology, but Javert only screws his eyes shut and pushes forward again, hollowing his cheeks, taking Valjean’s cock to the root. Valjean shudders convulsively. “Oh, God, you do, I –”

Javert squeezes Valjean’s knees, reassuringly, and he groans. Javert wants to tell him not to be afraid – not to fear to push for his needs, not to treat Javert as though he is fragile and might break – but he hopes the wordless work of his mouth speaks for him, as he begins to bob his head in ever quicker motions, following the pull and push of Valjean’s hands, and Valjean’s noises turn frantic and his hips shove forward; he comes with his fingers digging painfully into Javert’s scalp, gasping and spilling his seed down his throat.

A bit drips from the corner of Javert’s lips when he slides Valjean’s cock from his mouth. He wipes it away, then licks it from his fingers, glancing sidelong to see Valjean’s reaction. Valjean looks somewhat stunned, like he has been struck over the head with a hammer. It is a good look on him.

“You,” Valjean says, no small amount of appreciation and surprise in his voice, “are capable of filthier things than I could ever have imagined.”

“And you ought to indulge in whatever other filth you have imagined with that saintly mind,” Javert retorts, but he is smiling. “Come down.”

Valjean tucks himself back in his trousers and reaches for the trunk of the tree to clamber down. On the ground now, beside Javert, he glances up, still breathing a little heavily; Javert cannot tell whether it is from the exertion of climbing down from the tree or from the aftereffects of his orgasm. Valjean’s hands are curled by his sides; he lifts one, tentatively, then drops it.

“May I –”

“Damn well do it,” Javert says bluntly, “whatever it is, I have already sucked your cock, I think I am ready enough for anything else you might want.”

Valjean turns scarlet. But then he reaches up and grabs Javert by the ears, hauling him down for a kiss that makes Javert go breathless with the fierceness of it; Valjean releases his face, rucks up his shirt, and begins to press hungry kisses to Javert’s belly, and he gasps and shivers. Valjean is running his fingers through the hair that increases as he goes down, nearing the junction of Javert’s human and equine halves – until it is no longer coarse hair on skin, but a sleek hide, that he strokes, his hand molding to the curves of Javert’s muscles. He rounds Javert’s body, kisses the hump of his equine shoulder, and smooths a hand along Javert’s side, over the ribs, down towards his haunch – and then Valjean’s hand is between Javert’s hind legs, stroking at the lips of his sheath and at the swollen cockhead beginning to push forth from between them.

The resolution in Valjean’s motions is arousing enough; Javert grows hard quickly, cock sliding from his sheath, and soon, Valjean’s hand is running delicately along its entire length, then gripping more firmly, fingers not quite circling the girth of it. Javert rests his hand on the trunk of the tree beside him, the rough bark under his fingers anchoring him in reality even as the pleasure runs heated through his body. His breath stutters, his haunches buck forward a little, as Valjean’s palm rubs across the tip of his cock, then cloth rustles as Valjean moves back towards Javert’s rump and kneels –

Javert cranes his neck just in time to see Valjean’s head lower, then there are lips closing on the tip of his cock and his head jerks back. “Christ!” he gasps, and his eyes squeeze shut, his fingers dig into the bark of the tree. Valjean has never done this before – a tremor runs through his body, but he keeps his hooves still, not wanting to crush Valjean by accident.

He looks back again. Valjean has taken hold of his prick with both hands, and his mouth is stretching tight over the head, accommodating the bulbous knob. “God,” Javert marvels, not sure what he is saying, “you – this – I did not know you would want this –”

Valjean hums around his cock, and Javert convulses. “Valjean!”

By some miracle he manages to keep still, though when Valjean begins to move his head in little jerks – not having enough room in his mouth to bob his head or take much more than the swollen tip of Javert’s cock – it is all he can do to remain motionless, it is deliriously good, it is all he could have dreamed of and more.

Valjean’s hands begin to stroke along his cock, working from the base forward, fingers encircling the swollen flesh in a rough, steady grip, and his tongue and lips continue to work at the head. Javert has felt nothing like this before, none of this slick scorching heat, and he has barely the presence of mind to gasp in warning, “Valjean, I’m coming, Christ –”

Valjean’s mouth moves off, his hands move swiftly, and Javert comes with a moan, body tensing, hearing the splatter of his spend on the grass.

He catches his breath as Valjean rises, looking just as unsteady as he feels, and pats Javert’s side with a dazed expression. “Was that all right?” he asks.

Javert laughs shakily. Valjean moves to stand by his shoulder. “Does it look like I am about to complain?” he says. “Valjean, you –” He does not know how to express his amazement and his appreciation, and instead strokes Valjean’s hair; the man presses his still-slick lips to the join of his human and equine halves.

Javert tries to collect himself. “It was a damn long time in coming, though, that is the truth,” he adds, and feels a brief laugh against his skin. “I am being honest. You – good God, do not try to deny yourself any longer, you deserve a bit of self-indulgence if this is the sort of result it brings.”

Valjean laughs again. “I will be sure to make this up to you, then,” he says, “but it is getting dark. Shall we go?”

His stomach is rumbling; he thinks of the apple in his pocket, he thinks more longingly of a hot dinner, a warm home. “Certainly.” He stays still as Valjean swings up to sit astride his back; his arms wrap around Javert’s torso, and a kiss is pressed to his ear as they turn to start the journey home.


End file.
